Ice Princess
by lululamperouge
Summary: Guilford x Cornelia
1. 1

**Ice Princess - 1**  
(a Code Geass fan fic)

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She wore that smirk just to spite him. He _knew _it was to spite him. That ever-so-slight curve of her violet lips and furrow of the brow; the way her eyes – deep indigo with flecks of lavender – would sparkle with guile and flicker in his direction as she entered a room, absorbing all attention, assuming all command, thwarting all of _his _timeless plans and receiving glory upon victory. And he would bite his tongue, swallow his pride, and bow his head like a dog, not out of fear, for he had none of that, but respect.

She was Cornelia li Britannia, second princess of the empire, while he a mere soldier. "The Spearhead of the Empire" they called him, for his efficient strategies, admirable courage and incomparable dexterity with a Knightmare Frame, but a soldier nevertheless.

That was why she did it; to harden his humility, remind him just who was in charge, despite sex or skill. It was going to get her into trouble one of these days.

"Enemy bases are located along this mountain range at approximately five mile intervals," Guilford stated, standing above a holographic map of the Svalbard archipelago. Blue-tinted light illuminated his face, reflecting off his thin-rimmed spectacles.

He used a pocket-sized remote to elucidate various points. With one click, peaks and ridges sprung from the table, offering a three-dimensional view of the landscape. The coast line shone red. "We'll anchor battleships here as reinforcements should their use arise. Otherwise..." With another tap, a jagged line appeared around the base of the mountains. "A fleet of Sutherlands will line up in two separate groups – led by myself and General Darlton – at either side."

"Oh no, that'll never work," Cornelia said, walking up beside him. Her thin heels clicked against the tile floors, her hips swaying slightly. She smoothed her lilac hair with a flick of her wrist. "The troops are too far. We'll never capture the base if our weapons can't reach our enemies. It would be smarter to send an elite group, such as myself, into the base to eliminate the rebel leaders. Once enemy troops become chaotic and confused, we'll seize the base. It's that simple."

"That would be suicide!" Guilford argued. He jabbed a finger at the image. "The Norwegians chose an optimal point to fashion their base. Svalbard is a barren land with no vegetation and vast expanses of pure, white snow. They'll see us approaching from miles away and instigate counter measures before we even arrive."

"Hiding is cowardice." She placed her hands on her hips, straight-backed, and inhaled deeply, inflating her chest. In her shoes, she was still a foot and a half shorter than him. "'The best defence is a good offense.' Or hadn't you learned that?"

"Such a concept is entirely relative to the situation," Guilford replied, keeping his tone steady. He tried not to notice her large, round breasts pushing against the velvet of her blouse. "If we follow your plan and rush in guns blazing, they'll bombard us from above. It's in our better interest to remain out of firing range. That way, they'll be tempted to come down the mountain themselves in order to face us. Once they do, the rear forces will proceed, capture the base and continue to drive them into a death trap via the pincer manoeuvre."

Cornelia narrowed her eyes, staring straight into his, and pressed her lips into a thin line. Guilford never wavered.

"That may have worked for you in other battles, but I will not sit idle by waiting for an opponent who may or may not venture from their hideout to face me. You can't even guarantee they will face us. If we are simply waiting, and they know we're waiting, they'll continue with their training. It will be a waste of time."

He shook his head slowly. "Rebels fight for a cause; every tactic is executed with the intent to send a message to the world. They are passionate warriors, but passion is a weakness on the battlefield. You are susceptible to instinct and impulsiveness rather than plans and that often leads to failure. Our presence alone will awaken their thirst for vengeance."

With a roll of her eyes, Cornelia turned and strode away, towards the plush chair along the opposite wall. She sat, crossing one ankle over the other knee and rested her cheek on her fist. "We'll make a compromise, how about that? You and the Glaston Knights can stay at the base of the mountain range, as you suggest, while Darlton and I, along with three or four more Knightmares, will climb up to the base, destroy who we can and lure the rest out. Regardless if they can see us or not, it will be harder to kill a couple Frames than an entire fleet. Do you have any objections, Lord Guilford?"

The eyes of the other soldiers were on him now, awaiting his response with eager anticipation. To argue her orders further were grounds for insubordination. Though such instances were often kept hidden, rumours arose and gossip spread over the fates of those found guilty of the crime. He was not foolish enough to believe he had the loyalty and respect of all his subordinates. Britannia, the military or otherwise, was Darwinism at its finest. Should he lose his rank, power-hungry dolts would beat one another silly in an attempt to fill it themselves. And he would find himself carted back to the homeland in a prisoner's straightjacket to begin anew as a pilot, expendable goods in an operation such as this.

Behind his lips, he clenched his teeth so tightly, his jaw quivered. A stressed smile flashed across his face as he closed his eyes, dipping chin to chest, and pressed his hand to his chest. "No, Your Highness."

"Good."

There was that smirk again. The gloss on her lips caught the fluorescent lights above. At his side, Guilford's knuckles turned white beneath the strain. He sent her a glare that publicized his hatred, before taking his leave. He talked himself through deep breaths as he followed the steel corridors towards his living quarters.

"Gilbert!" called a booming voice behind him. Guilford cringed at the sound of his given name and considered pretending like he hadn't heard Andreas Darlton speak and continuing around the corner. In the end, he hesitated long enough for the general with the ugly scar running from his right eye to left jaw bone to catch up.

"General, how can I help you? And it's Guilford."

"Come. Let us talk, you and I." Darlton put a large arm around Guilford's shoulders and steered him in the direction of the cafeteria.

Men and women of varying ages sat in similar uniforms, coats and pants trimmed with lace and edged with gold, complete with ruffles, frills, badges and gloves to keep their hands clean against the unwashed masses outside the sanctified walls of the bureau. Around circular tables, they ate fine dinners of steamed vegetables, potatoes and cuts of grilled meat by candlelight while classical music drifted from hidden speakers in the ceiling panels.

Guilford and Darlton took a seat in the corner, nearly swallowed up by the oversized chairs. The cafeteria was not unlike upscale restaurants. The walls painted a soft oxblood upon which paintings and photographs of the Emperor and the majesty of Britannia hung for all patrons to see. Windows overlooking the well-kept courtyard, fountain guarded by a stone cherub pouring water from a vase, and colourful flower garden were flanked by thin curtains. It was a spot for the elite to recuperate after a long day's work.

Darlton poured them each a glass of bourbon and said, "Please forgive Princess Cornelia's behaviour."The candlelight struck the crystal, painting rainbows on the wall. "Often times she forgets that rank is not everything, that experience is ultimately the best tool."

"You're apologizing to me on the Princess' behalf?" Guilford asked, stunned. If anyone, he believed he should be the one who beg for pardon.

"Yes. Of course, Her Highness would have my head if she should find out," he said with a gruff laugh. His shoulders shook like small tremors. He brought his glass to his mouth and swallowed half the amber contents with a tilt of his head.

Guilford stared into his own glass, his reflection murky. "I suppose I should accept this as a great honour."

Darlton continued as though he hadn't stopped. "Princess Cornelia is a proud woman. She hates to lose. I'm sure you can sympathize with this."

"Of course; no one _likes _to lose," he said.

"However, at the same time, she is empathetic. Perhaps she might not show it, but she is. She would never knowingly put her troops in harm's way and never allows another to take responsibility for her failures. She accepts the consequences of her actions. I believe that takes a very strong person."

Using his middle finger, Guilford pushed his specs further up the bridge of his nose. "Why, exactly, are you telling me this, General?"

Darlton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and cradled the remainder of his drink between beefy hands. He brought his voice to a low rumble of a whisper. Guilford leaned in to hear him better.

"Princess Cornelia was in charge of administering Lady Marianne's person guard," he admitted and looked around as if to make sure no one overheard. The other soldiers appeared content with their dinners and conversations. "Despite rumours that Emperor Charles' other wives – the Princess' mother included – disapproved of His Highness' chose to marry a commoner, Cornelia held much respect for the late Lady. Loved her, really.

"It was very traumatic for her when Lady Marianne was assassinated. Not only had she lost someone she loved dearly, but she felt that it was her fault for not protecting her." He sat back with a heavy sigh and polished off the bourbon. "Ever since, she's grown obsessed with becoming better and stronger on the battlefield. There are still plenty of people she wishes to shelter."

"And therefore, her brash actions in battle stem from her desire to prove her worth and make up for the life she failed to keep safe?" Guilford's brow arched and he sipped his drink carefully. "Again I ask, why tell me this?"

When Darlton planted a hand on Guilford's shoulder, the young soldier strained from yielding beneath the weight. "You are a strong man and a brilliant warrior. I can see that each time you give in to Cornelia's orders, your own pride suffers and your hatred for her grows. I ask that you take into consideration her motives and sympathize with her, rather than hate her. Everyone has something they fight for."

He didn't even bother waiting for a response, merely getting up and left the cafeteria, returning to Cornelia's side. Guilford sat a while longer, nursing his drink and Darlton's words. The room slowly emptied, and young women in lacy skirts and black stockings cleaned the tables with damp washcloths.

When the candle on his table had burned to its base and extinguished in a swirl of smoke, he rose from the chair and retired to his quarters. It was a small space; larger than the bunks of warrant officers and generals, but smaller than a knight's. The carpet was linoleum and the walls were steel. There was a kitchenette in the corner consisting of a sink, stove and mini fridge. The washroom contained another sink and a toilet, but he was forced to clean in the public showers down the hall. There was a reading lamp and chair in the living area beside an oak desk where he spent entire nights over maps and scattered papers, switching from pen to compass to ruler and protractor, creating and refining different strategies. The perfect plan was more than work; it was almost like art.

But he didn't feel like working now, and headed straight for the alcove to hang up his coat. He changed into something a little more comfortable, left his glasses on the counter beneath the sink in the bathroom and crawled into his bunk after turning out the lights. Their expedition to Svalbard would begin the following morning.

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In the cockpit of his Knightmare, he adjusted the seat, tugging on his spandex flight suit. Around his ear, he clipped the wireless headset, adjusting the microphone over his mouth for optimal communication. Between his knees, he pulled out the safety lock, replacing it with a gold key and typed in his password on the monitor. All at once, a series of lights and screens turned on, scanning the instruments and confirming function.

After his mission was mapped out as a computer simulation on the three monitors in front of him, the Knightmare was transported on a series of strings and pulleys to the launching deck. The countdown began as he made final adjustments to his settings and established the positions of every other troop.

Upon authorization, he shifted into drive and careened down the deck with the speed and agility of a first-class ice-skater. The frigid land of Svalbard awaited him at the end of the tunnel, the reflection of the sun on the snow blinding him. Britannian forces lined up as planned along the mountain range, guns at the ready.

The Norwegians, having seen them from sentry posts, opened fire, their missiles sending up ice and clouds of snow. Aside from blurred windows and shivering pilots, the Britannians were un-phased. The missiles hadn't had the range to hit them.

On his monitor, Guilford followed Cornelia and Darlton's Knightmares' ascent up the icy cliffs. So far, they'd remained undetected by the forces concentrated on the army down below, but their violet Gloucesters stuck out against the snow.

As predicted, the Norwegians couldn't resist meeting them face to face in combat and began down the slopes. While cannons fired rounds of fire rain over their heads, troops in armoured trucks rumbled closer. Guilford commanded the Sutherlands into formation and the assault began. He wove in and around skull-rattling blasts, firing like an expert sniper at enemy vehicles. White snow lost its colour to blood and gunpowder.

Twenty minutes in and it appeared their victory was already confirmed. The Norwegians' attacks were sloppy and direct. Obviously, these were amateurs; trainees with too little experience.

"Have you secured the base?" Guilford inquired, changing to a private line between himself and Darlton.

"Not quite," he replied. Guilford sensed an underlying quiver in the general's voice. "There is a fair amount of resistance up here we were not expecting. We've lost two Knightmares."

Guilford scanned the field before him, watching the enemy causalities increase by the moment. This battle had been easy, perhaps a little _too_ easy.

"They've seen through our trap," he stated evenly. "Our opponents are merely grunts. Their best fighters are still at the mountain's summit. They've been waiting for you."

"Just as I thought," Darlton said. A whirl of hydro drives and explosion from his Gloucester's cannon echoed in the headset.

"Requesting permission to aid Her Highness and your Lordship," Guilford said. "I'll transfer command to the Glaston Knights."

"Permission granted. Hurry Guilford."

Sniper fighters set their sights on him as he climbed the mountain, narrowly avoiding falling shells and cannon blasts. He was struck from behind by a tank hidden in the cliff; his monitor displayed damage to his left arm. His lips curled up over his teeth. He didn't have the time to waste on fodder like this. In mid-turn, he shot two bullets at the tank, one to the base, the other down the cannon, forcing the awaiting bullet to detonate early.

In her Knightmare, Cornelia struggled against the side of the mountain while enemy gunfire struck her from all directions. Her computers were flashing, turning off and on at varying intervals while sirens rang, warning of a dozen different and contradictory problems at once.

"Damn you!" she screamed and raised her gun at the nearest cannon. She was blinded by a bright spark as her right arm was shot clean off, exposing wires and hardware. Suddenly, the lights in her cockpit shut off; the energy filler was running low.

On the front screen, through the eyes of her Knightmare, she watched a simple Sutherland speed in front of her.

"I thought you could use some help, Your Highness." A corner window appeared on her monitor. From his cockpit, Guilford smirked. Cornelia bit her lip. She didn't want his help, but she knew she needed it.

When the insurgents were dealt with, the barrage ending with smoke and a flurry of light snow in its wake, Guilford turned his Knightmare in the direction of a wounded unit. "You there. Can you make it to the bottom?"

"I think so," whispered the weak voice on the other end.

"Our medical station is just beyond that ridge. Rest there, and have another unit bring Princess Cornelia a new energy filler."

"Yes, my Lord."

The Knightmare descended the mountain and in the quiet, Guilford relaxed. With his thumb, he played with the detonation switch and scanned the ridge for signs of any lingering troops. There were a couple tanks milling around, but he preferred to arrest them rather than kill them if he could. Down below, the war was still raging, but statistics assured him there side was winning. Ninety percent of dots on the monitor were marked ally.

His screen warned of an approaching enemy unit on his left. He watched it carefully, raising his gun. The target quivered before locking onto the tank. It didn't appear to be aiming at him or the princess. When the shell burst from the barrel, he followed it over their heads. A wave of goose bumps coursed down his neck and spread out over his back and arms.

"That was a kamikaze manoeuvre!" he shouted, pressing his headset into his face so not a word was missed. "They've created an avalanche to take out our forces! Everyone retreat! I repeat: pull back _now_!"

"What?" Cornelia swivelled her Knightmare's head just as the snow fell away from the mountain summit, racing towards her like a hungry beast.

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**Disclaimer: **Code Geass and its related characters belong to Sunrise, CLAMP and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **Guilford x Cornelia is perhaps my favourite pairing in Code Geass. I hope I can portray a believable transition between hatred to love in no more than three chapters.


	2. 2

**Ice Princess - 2**  
(a Code Geass fan fic)

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When she finally regained consciousness, Cornelia found herself upside down in the cockpit of her Gloucester. Turning herself around, she began to hit switches. All of the lights were off, the computers out of operation. She watched her breath form puffs of white as she exhaled and the air caused her nostrils to freeze painfully when she inhaled. Her body convulsed with a shiver. Her skull throbbed and she touched it gently, white glove black in the dark. She was bleeding.

"Darlton, can you hear me? Glaston Knights?" She cursed beneath her breath. Communication lines were out as well. She wondered how many, like her, had survived the avalanche. Those damned Norwegians. Rather than accepting defeat they'd pulled a stunt like that. This was why she hated Numbers – and surrender or not, Numbers they were.

Cornelia opened a compartment beneath the seat. There was a container of non-perishable food, a first-aid kit and a fleece blanket: a Knightmare Pilot's emergency kit. Knowing she'd need it, she tucked the box under her arm.

After hesitating only once, she ejected her seat, springing out into the frigid arctic. Her skin immediately started to prickle beneath her insulated flight suit. She was lucky not to have been buried. As she looked around, it appeared others were not so fortunate. Shrapnel and debris from tanks and Knightmares alike dotted the snow. Small fires burned in the distance.

Cornelia decided to keep moving and search for survivors. So long as she was moving, it would be harder to die of hypothermia. Besides, she could stop and warm at one of the fires.

She stepped down onto the compact snow and started walking. She stopped, listening to the wind howl as it passed over the mountains. The avalanche had pulled them far from their original position. She wasn't sure where they were now and there was nothing but the vast expanse of ocean to gather bearings. The sun was straight above. No help.

Behind her, steel screeched as it rubbed against steel. Cornelia glanced over her shoulder, watching a Knightmare, half buried, attempt to rise. The Sutherland's mighty head turned to face her.

"Princess Cornelia." Guilford's voice emanated from the speakers, reverberating off the smooth slopes.

"Lord Guilford." Despite herself, Cornelia found herself smiling. "Thank God. All my communications are down."

"Unfortunately, mine as well," the Sutherland replied. "And there's little left in my energy filler. I'm afraid I too am stranded, as you are."

She asked, "Do you have heat in there?"

"Some. It won't last much longer though."

Her eyes burned as her tears instantly froze and she wiped them with the back of her hand. She wasn't sure why she was crying.

"Come inside, Princess." The massive machine knelt and the cockpit opened. Guilford stood up. His flight suit was torn at the shoulder, the wounded flesh beneath oozing blood, and his glasses were mangled, the lenses smashed. Taking her hand, he helped her up and waited on the shoulder of the frame as the seat slid back inside.

It was warm in the cockpit of the Sutherland. She located the emergency kit and stacked it on top of the one she'd taken from her own unit. Together, there was enough food to last three days at most. It wouldn't be long before the ocean vessels learned what happened on shore and came to help. They were near the coast, but there was no guarantee they'd be found immediately. Likely, they'd aid the injured before sending a party out after them.

Ten minutes later, she pushed the seat out with a hiss of air. "Your turn now. We'll alternate until the filler runs out."

"I'm fine," Guilford replied. He was busy trying to repair his glasses but his fingers were too numb. It was difficult to twist the metal.

"It wouldn't help me if you died," she said. "Get inside."

"It wouldn't help you if _you_ died." He turned and met her gaze as best he could without being able to see her clearly. "And unlike me, you have a reason to survive."

She pursed her lips and drove her fist into her hip. "Now, just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said. It would be more a tragedy if you died than if I did. You are a princess. I am a soldier. It would be an insult to equate an heir to the Holy Britannian Empire with a man whose sole purpose in life is to expand the same empire and defend its rulers at the cost of his life. You should go inside."

Cornelia stared at him, examining him. Until that moment, she hadn't really considered him as an individual; merely the pawn piece he considered himself. He was just another man filled with arrogance and something to prove. She'd hated him for the way he looked at her, like he knew she was scared inside, that the confidence she emitted was nothing more than a farce. That _she _had something she needed to prove. He'd known her without really knowing her.

"Have you no family, no siblings or lovers or friends?"

"No, not really," he admitted. "My father is an earl back in the homeland. Supercilious old man with too much money and no sense on what to do with it. My mother died in childbirth and since he's married to a woman younger than I am who's just given birth to twins. I doubt I'll live to see them, even if I wanted to. Aside from that, the closest friends I have are the men and women I fight alongside. But it's unwise to form relationships with people like that; they die too easily."

She'd taken a seat on the frozen steel shoulder beside him and swung her legs back and forth like a child on a swing. "That must be difficult for you to have no reason to live."

"It's better that way," he said, finally straightening the wire as best he could. When he replaced the glasses on his nose, they were lopsided and he could only see out of the corner near the bridge. But it would do. "It keeps me focused on victory. Otherwise, I might care too much for my own safety and ruin an operation."

But fighting for someone gives you the drive to succeed, Cornelia said to herself. She thought of little Euphemia and Lelouch, Nunnally and Clovis, everyone she held dear. Without them, she'd likely remain within royal grounds, dressed in laced skirts with her hair twisted in some bizarre up-do, practicing her mannerisms and studying literature or piano. A much safer life, but one without benefit. It made her happy to know she was protecting those she loved.

Over the wind, she heard the land creak and groan like a beast rustled out of slumber. It was haunting. She wished she could go home.

"Did you hear that?" Guilford asked and looked around, panicked.

"Yes, but it's the wind," she said.

"No, that wasn't the wind." He stood up and climbed over the shoulder to the Knightmare's head where he had a full view of the land around them. He pushed the lenses of his glasses closer to his eyes, trying to see through the thin fog that had formed from his warm breath and the cold air. Something was spider-webbing through the snow. A predator with an objective, with a deadly purpose.

"We're standing on a sheet of ice. The avalanche must have put a strain on it."

"So, it's not going to crack," she said confidently.

"Unless my eyes are failing me, it is."

Cornelia's eyes grew large, sparkling with the remnants of her tears. She stood and teetered on the edge of the shoulder. "But the water below is..."

"Freezing," he finished and gave her a gentle shove. The groaning grew louder. "We have to get off of here."

For the first time that day, for the first time ever, she saw no reason to argue and jumped to the ground. Her knees ached with cold and pain. Beyond her, the land stretched out lonesome and frightening. Their only source of survival was Guilford's remaining energy filler and the contents of the emergency kits.

"Wait!" She spun around, colliding with his chest. His chin struck her forehead and blood spurted from the still open wound. "I left the emergency kits inside."

"I'll get them. Just keep your distance." He grabbed the wire and climbed back up to the cockpit, diving inside. The kits were stacked in front of the computer console and he tossed them to her out the back.

"Hurry!" she shouted, tucking the boxes beneath her arm.

He turned and crawled over the seat on his hands and knees. Coming out, he looked up at the gloomy, gray sky. Something cold and wet touched his cheek; a lone snowflake.

Suddenly, the ice split with a sickening crack, like bones popping out of their sockets. It gave way beneath the weight of the snow and littered frames, the steel groaning like a mighty blue whale, and Gilbert Guilford plunged into the frigid waters below.

"_Guilford_!" Cornelia dropped the emergency kits and ran to the edge of the sheet where the Sutherland had gone down. She stared into the murky water, watching the shadows move around and grow dimmer. The Knightmare was sinking.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," she muttered over and over.

Laying flat on her belly, she shoved her hand into the water, the cold striking her nerves like hundreds of knives and small razors. It felt like a shark was chewing off her arm but she bit her lip and stirred it around. Her fingers grazed hard metal and rubbery fish. Finally, she touched something soft, curled her fingers around it and pulled with all her strength.

Twice, she lost her grip and once she was almost dragged into the ocean herself, but she managed to pull Guilford, soaking and blue-skinned, onto the ice. He coughed and vomited sea water and stomach acid and gasped for the frozen air. When the coughing subsided, he shivered.

Cornelia's hand was red, her glove in tatters. She must have cut herself on debris from the Sutherland, but the cold made it impossible to feel the pain. She stumbled to her feet and wound an arm beneath his shoulders. They had to get somewhere dry, somewhere safe until Britannian soldiers found them.

"Princess..." He faded in and out, stumbling repeatedly as they left the shore and began the climb up the mountain. The avalanche cleared snow away, revealing deep caverns carved into the cliff face by ancient rivers and erosion. They staggered into the first cavern, close to the bottom of the mountain. No longer shivering, Guilford collapsed. His skin was white, his lips nearly navy. Bending her ear to his chest, Cornelia discovered his heartbeat was faint.

Opening the kits, she took out the fleece blankets, leaving smears of blood on everything she touched. She'd clean herself later. First, she had to warm him up. Her fingers pulsated painfully but she managed to grab the small, concealed zipper under his chin and pulled it down. Flight suits were made to insulate the body while remaining comfortable and flexible. But in this cold, it would freeze and kill him faster than if he were naked.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Cornelia's cheeks warmed at the thought and her stomach clenched with guilt. She unzipped it further, peeling the fabric from his skin like a sodden swimsuit. Beneath, all he wore was a pair of black briefs and though they too were wet, the idea of seeing him completely naked, of exposing the sizeable bump that already had her heart racing was too much; it was unfair and inappropriate. She decided to leave them on. She wrapped him in the blankets until he started to shiver again.

"Thank goodness," she breathed. So long as he was shivering, he was okay. His body was responding to the cold and working to keep his core temperature warm.

Like a mother tucking in her child before bed, she folded the blankets beneath his arms tightly so no drafts could get in. Slowly, she traced the side of his face with her finger. He'd lost his glasses and there was a cut on his cheek. His damp hair hardened in the cold; crispy clusters of black.

Cornelia sat back against the stone wall of the cave. It was still cold, but without the wind, it was uncomfortable more than anything. When she was sure Guilford would be okay, she returned to the wreckage of the fleet. Some fires were still burning, fuelled by electrical equipment and the pilots' personal belongings. Cornelia gathered what she could and brought it back to their hovel. It wouldn't last without more to burn, but they didn't have much.

An hour or two later, perhaps more, perhaps less – every second felt like an eternity, so she couldn't be sure how much time had passed; this close to the pole, it would be light all year – Guilford stirred and Cornelia held her breath. He mumbled, rolled from side to side and shook with a seizing shiver. Slowly, he opened his eyes, pulling against the ice that formed on his lashes and stared at the ceiling.

"What happened?" he asked, voice soft.

She stopped coaxing the fire and looked over her shoulder at him. "You fell into the water, remember? We're in a cave. It'll protect us from the elements until someone finds us."

He sat up, the blankets falling away. His bare skin prickled with cold and he pulled them up again to his chin. His hair collided like wind chimes. "You undressed me?"

There was an angry, accusatory tone in his voice and Cornelia's violet eyes narrowed into a glare. "Would you have preferred to freeze to death? Fine then, I'll know for next time. Anyway, I didn't see _anything _if that's what you're implying. I may be a soldier, but I am still a lady."

Silence fell between them. Guilford adjusted the blankets and inched closer to the fire. It smelled of oxidized metal and carbon. The ice in his hair warmed and melted, sliding between his shoulder blades and down his spine. Without his glasses, the blurred cave made his head ache.

Cornelia opened the emergency kits with a snap. Inside were elastic and woven bandages, gauze dressings and alcohol. She dabbed a bit on a cotton ball and wiped the blood from her arm. The cuts on her arm were like a failed suicide attempt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her voice carried around the cave.

Guilford looked up, shaking himself awake from his mild paralysis. The flickering fire flames were mesmerizing. For a moment, he thought he was at the bureau, in the cafeteria with a glass in front of the fireplace while snow fell outside and frost coated the windows. "Pardon?"

Her chin wrinkled. "I said I was sorry. All of this is my fault. If I had listened to you and followed your initial strategy..."

"This still would have happened," he replied. Her annoyance grew; he had an irritating tendency to finish her sentences. Then, she registered what she'd heard and stared into her lap.

"You're just saying that. Do you think I don't know people yield to me? That they give up everything – their own opinions, desires, lives – for me? And I take advantage of that. I know it's wrong, I feel guilty, and yet I do it anyway. What a terrible woman I am."

"In regards to this incident, I wasn't lying. It's true, our number of casualties would likely have been smaller and you and I might not be here, but our enemies were ruthless enough to use whatever measures necessary. They believed it better to die than serve the Empire. Regardless on whose plan was followed, the ends would have been the same."

Faintly, she smirked, but this time, it was not a smirk of victory at having bested him. It was one of defeat, at acknowledging her own mistake and discovering the inhumanity in him. "That's not very comforting."

To that, he smiled. "It's not in my nature to be comforting. However, as for the other matter, you're not terrible, Princess. You're human. You've been given the gift of status. As royalty, you can use your subjects however you choose. Any other would do the same. It's not as if they mind, really. If they did, they would remove themselves from a position in which to be used as a tool."

"So, you're saying you don't mind being a tool?" she asked.

"No." He tucked the blankets between his legs, parting his knees slightly in a more comfortable position. "As I said earlier, I have no other lot in life. Why not give my abilities to another? Allow them to fulfill their goals? At least then I will have some sort of purpose for existing."

She was wrong about him, she realized and used her teeth to pull the bandages tighter around her arm. They were already turning red. Guilford was not arrogant nor did he have something he needed to prove. He was just living.

"What if you had a different purpose?" She spoke without realizing, the words dropping out of her mouth as soon as they filtered through her mind.

He raised his brows, staring at her through the blur. "Such as?"

"Well, I can be rather foolish with no guide and the homeland will soon announce my promotion to viceroy – if I survive this, that is. I'll need someone to advise and protect me. As an excellent soldier, what better role would there be than as the second princess' knight?"

It was a while before he responded. Such would be a great honour. To be a knight; the only position higher would be one of the Rounds. But it was a close second. However, he had, only days ago, hated Cornelia. He'd hated the way she looked at him, the way she seemed to enjoy his humiliation and imposing dishonour on his spirit. He would have, he believed, been content to mourn her as another soldier, no more, should she die on the battlefield.

Was he then capable, of all eligible candidates, to hold her safety in his hands? To fight in her honour, care for her as though blood, as though a lover? To give his wisdom and life to her?

He wasn't sure.

.

**Disclaimer: **Code Geass and its related characters belong to Sunrise, CLAMP and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **One more chapter left, that's all I'm giving myself. I hope I'm not rushing this and it's not too cheesy. Most romance stories, fan fiction or otherwise, tends to be a little though.


	3. 3

**Ice Princess - 3**  
(a Code Geass fan fic)

.

The wind picked up and the fire Cornelia started began to fade. Soon it would extinguish altogether. There was nothing else to burn. She blew into her hands, muscles stiff, and rubbed them together. Where were those soldiers? Would they make it before the fire burned out? Would they make it at all? Were they even looking?

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Guilford wrapped a blanket around his waist, pinching the other around his shoulders. His suit, spread out on the stone, was frozen; a sheet of rigid rubber and Lycra. There was no way he'd be able to wear it now. Most likely, it'd snap in the cold.

Cornelia opened one of the kits, riffling through the contents until she found a package of dried meat. Her hands were shaking, fingers too numb to tear the plastic as her heartbeat pulsated in the tips. Her teeth rattled and she dropped the bag, hanging her head between her knees.

"We're going to die here, aren't we?" she asked. A couple tears formed and stung her eyes as they froze, pinching her skin. "No one's looking for us. No one's going to find us. We're going to freeze. Our bodies will just become harder and harder until we can't move. We'll suffer."

"You are Cornelia li Britannia, second princess of the Holy Britannian Empire. Once word gets out of your disappearance, every able body in the military will be dispatched to find you. You're not going to die." Guilford abandoned his flight suit and knelt beside her, picking up the packet of meat and opened it with his teeth. "Here."

"You're just trying to make me feel better," she said, taking the small sliver of salted beef from him. It was tough but tasted good. She hadn't eaten in hours.

"No." He held her hand once she'd placed the whole slice in her mouth and wrapped them in his own beneath the blanket. Her blood moved like shards of glass, poking at her nerves. "I'm just telling you the truth."

Cornelia chewed on the meat for a long time, softening it in her mouth until it flaked and shredded and she was able to swallow. Somehow, though the portion was small, she felt stronger now that she'd eaten, if only a little.

"Do you still hate me?" she asked, staring at his hands. The tips had gone white from the lack of proper blood flow and his knuckles seemed prominent, rigid. "I'll understand if you do. I haven't treated you well. But, you should know; it's not because I dislike you. I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?" he asked, intrigued.

"That you could see me for the failure I was. That you would confirm my worthlessness."

Quietly, he said, "You're not worthless."

"I let Lady Marianne die!" she screamed and her voice reverberated through the cavernous space. Leaning forward, she buried her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his back and cried. She hadn't cried over it until now. There hadn't been the time. "My only duty was to make sure they were safe: Lady Marianne, Lelouch...Nunnally. But I let them down. Now she's dead. The woman I loved more as a mother than my own blood is dead and it's all my fault. Nunnally's crippled and blind, carted off to Japan with Lelouch, and now you're here, fighting to survive while dozens of my men have been buried beneath the snow in this God forsaken place. You've been dragged into my punishment."

Guilford closed his heavy eyes and wrapped a weak, fingertip-tingling arm around her. She shook like a small child, and he felt a compulsion to protect her from her own fears. "Such tragedy was not your fault, Princess. Believe that. There are forces at work in this world no one can foresee, no one can combat. You're still young; you cannot be held responsible for what happened. And as for me; no, I don't hate you. Not anymore anyways. I realize now how shallow my opinion was. I was wrong, and I beg sincerely for your forgiveness."

Slowly, she lifted her head, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "You're not a bad man, Guilford."

He tilted his head, smirking in that way she'd come to hate. "Who said I was?"

"No one," she said and rested her ear against his chest. She listened to the slow pounding of his heart. "I used to think that. For once I'm glad I was wrong. I'm glad I'm stuck here with you."

He loosened the blanket around his shoulders and draped it over hers. They sat together until the fire went out, sharing a little warmth between them. Whether from fatigue, cold, or a mixture of both, Cornelia fell asleep. Cradling her head, he laid her flat on the ground and kept watch, studying the speed and frequency of the rise and fall of her chest. Though their source of heat and light was dwindling, her breathing never seemed to slow.

When she'd been asleep for a while with no changes in her body's actions, he rose and slowly ventured towards the mouth of the cave. His body moved with great effort. His vision was poor and his muscles were congealing. The winds outside had picked up, blowing snow and ice into a virtually impenetrable sheet of white. Patches of exposed skin had already gone white with frost bite. He'd die far sooner naked than Cornelia in her insulated flight suit. If only he hadn't gone down with his Sutherland, he'd at the very least have a bit of protection. At this rate, he didn't have much time left. If he didn't freeze first, his blood would crystallize and stab his heart like a dagger.

The landscape beyond was bleak. An expanse of pure white, dotted with gray and purple Knightmare frames, streaked with browning crimson. He slouched against the smooth wall of the cave, no strength left in his once firm legs. He had to face it; no one was coming for them and this was where he died.

.

He thought he was in Heaven when he opened his eyes and stared into the blurred lights above. His body was like putty, loose and stringy. The biting sting of the frigid arctic air was gone, replaced by a comfortable warmth that rose to his cheeks like a blush.

A cloud of darkness swept across the bright heavens, raining down soft, violet strands.

"You're awake," Cornelia spoke from the haze.

"Princess..." His lips were loose. "Where are we?"

She sat back and folded her hands properly on her lap. "Oceanic transport en route to the homeland. You've been unconscious for three days."

It was difficult to swallow and for the first time since opening his eyes he felt the prick of an IV unit in his vein. Machines lined the walls, hissing and beeping and whistling. Stern doctors in orange scrubs milled about with clipboards and charts, adjusting knobs and pressing buttons.

"As soon as the avalanche hit," she continued professionally, "and our forces were wiped, reinforcements were deployed to look for survivors. Besides us, only two people survived on the kits in their Knightmares. Your vitals fell pretty low; for a while, it looked like you weren't going to make it." Uneasily she smiled. "I'm pleased you pulled through."

"You say that like you'd have been disappointed if I'd died."

She pushed her fingers into his arm playfully. "You said it, I didn't."

"Princess," said one of the physicians, "perhaps Lord Guilford should rest."

"Oh yes." Her eyes briefly widened as though the thought of leaving his bed side hadn't occurred to her. She tucked her hair behind her ear and stood, smoothing her skirt. She grazed his chest with the tips of her fingers, lingering for a moment before dragging them across his skin as she stepped away. His neck and back erupted in goose bumps. "I have some work to finish. Get well, Lord Guilford."

"Thank you, Princess..." He felt a mild sense of disappointment as he listened to the door slide open and close. All the same, he found himself smiling.

.

Princess Cornelia held true to her word. Less than a month following the disaster in Svalbard, Britannia's elite and wealthy aristocrats filled the grand hall, dressed in exquisite gowns and pressed suits, sipping bubbling champagne from crystal glasses. The hall was brightly lit by enormous chandeliers, and gold-framed portraits of the Emperor and his royal family gazed down at the visitors. The floor was separated into two halves by a red velvet carpet leading to a dais upon which Cornelia stood in the loveliest dress Guilford had ever seen.

Light lavender to match her hair, the backless dress frilled around the neck and opened near her clavicle, showing off her ivory breasts, and came to a pinching close at her ribs before flowing over her hips and to the floor. Gold twisted along her abdomen and chest, fanning out into wings upon which chains of glittering jewels hung to catch the light above. Her violet hair was pinned on one side while the other was left to curl and fall over her shoulder. Makeup touched her eyes and lips. She looked more feminine than in all the time he'd known her, and she was beautiful.

Self-consciously, Guilford looked down at himself and tugged at his maroon cravat. Over a black vest with silver trim and a decorative violet breast plate, he wore a maroon coat accented with gold shoulder pads, buttons bearing the Britannian coat of arms, and loose tassels. A long ornamental scabbard hung in a leather sheath around his hip, knocking against his knee-high, black leather boots as he walked down the carpet. Ignoring the excited and envious eyes following him, he clenched his hands at his side and kept his face stern.

Reaching the dais, he knelt before Cornelia with one arm across his chest and the other behind his back, knowing the pre-Svalbard Guilford would have never thought of humbling himself so. His glasses slid along his nose and he sent a quick prayer heavenwards that they wouldn't drop off and humiliate him in front of the whole country.

Chatter silenced and the hall became still. Cornelia's commanding voice rose into the rafters as mightily as it did on the battlefield.

"Gilbert Guilford," she began the traditional oath, "will thou upon this day pledge thy fealty to Britannia and stand as a knight of the crown?"

"Yes Your Highness," he replied.

"Does thou wish to abandon thy self and be sword and shield for the sake of the greater good?"

"Yes Your Highness," he repeated.

Without rising, he pulled the scabbard from its sheath and offered it to the princess. Carefully, she took hold of the gold-laden handle and tapped the glinting blade against each of his shoulders.

"I, Cornelia li Britannia, do hereby dub thee Sir Gilbert Guilford." Finally, something of a smile touched her lips and he stood as the hall exploded in thunderous applause.

The celebrations lasted the rest of the evening, though Guilford spent most of his time talking with Darlton and the Glaston Knights, young men the general adopted and trained into his personal unit. They were intelligent, if touched by thoughts of youthful immortality and romantic chivalry, and devoted to Cornelia; their futures were bright.

"If I might ask," Darlton said a few hours after midnight. He was a tall man with more than enough loyalty, but even he succumbed to the drink and had started slurring his words together while nursing yet another half-empty glass. "What exactly happened between yourself and Princess Cornelia on that island? When you left you'd have sooner seen her dead and now you're her personal knight?"

Guilford twisted the handle of his glass between his thumb and finger, watching the light reflect off the golden liquid. He scanned the faces in the crowd but soon discovered Cornelia was no longer among them. She'd likely retired for the night, returning home to spend time with her dear sister Euphemia; Lord knew their bond was strong, and after such a devastating ordeal, she'd need some time with someone she loved.

"We...came to an understanding," he replied. "Sometimes first impressions, or second, I suppose."

"Or third, or fourth or fifth," Darlton said and laughed in a way that sounded like a hiccup, a cough and a bark all at the same time.

"Yes, quite true. Well, let's just say we've agreed that we were wrong about one another."

Darlton leaned in and closed one eye, squinting through the other. "You're plotting to assassinate her, are you?"

Nearby guests turned curiously and Guilford felt his ego sink into his shoes.

"I was only teasing, dear boy." Darlton smacked his hand hard against Guilford's back, nearly spilling his champagne. "So you're in love with her then?"

"I beg your pardon?" Lower sunk his ego as embarrassment rose into his face like a wayward helium-filled balloon. Once again, the curious heads turned. "No, of course not! I look at this as a beneficial promotion. What greater honour can I do my country than protecting a member of the ruling family? Cornelia is a beautiful and intellegent woman but love certainly has nothing to do with it."

At last, the Glaston Knights stepped in, kindly removing the glass from Darlton's hand, begging Guilford's pardon and escorting him away. For the remaining hour and a half, Guilford wandered the hall, trading banter with earls and counts and foreign rulers. He spotted Jeremiah Gottwald sulking in the corner. Poor boy hadn't been the same since Lady Marianne died and the children disappeared. Viletta Nu was around, looking as lovely as ever and he avoided Lloyd like the plague. The man was eccentric to an almost unbearable degree and Guilford wasn't particularly interested in celebrating his knighthood by discussing the fundamentals on how Sakuradite powered Knightmares through a chemical reaction between the molecules and plutonium isotopes, or some sort of nonsense.

He opened his pocket watch and checked the time. With a yawn, he decided it was time to take his leave and retire for the night. There'd be more celebration tomorrow.

.

**Disclaimer: **Code Geass and its related characters belong to Sunrise, CLAMP and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **I'm truly sorry for such a long wait. I wasn't entirely sure how to get them together without having some cheesy, cliché it'd-never-happen-in-real-life manoeuvre. Chapter 4 will be the final instalment into this fic, but don't worry, I have plenty more bouncing around in my head, so stay tuned!


	4. 4

**Ice Princess - 4**  
(a Code Geass fan fic)

.

The moment the doors closed behind him, leaving Guilford alone in his quarters, he released a deep sigh that sounded much the same as air escaping a balloon through a small hole. There was a time when he'd been able to remain awake the whole night without a worry and sleep on two hours alone. But after Svalbard, his body hadn't fully recuperated yet. It was a phase, but an irritating one, he thought as he crossed the darkened room towards the wardrobe and began to undress.

First he removed the scarf that was beginning to make his throat itch and folded it neatly on the dresser top among hairbrushes and glass cleansers and silk handkerchiefs with his initials embroidered in the corner – a memento from his youth he'd had duplicated umpteenth times over. The coat was hung in the corner, atop the vest and shirt that followed immediately afterwards, leaving his skin warm and dappled with moisture.

How ironic; weeks ago he'd have killed to wear clothes as warming as these. Now it was a blessing to get them off.

He was mulling over his situation, when a voice drifted out of the darkness. Not quite a smoker's voice, but clearly not that of a dove, either. "How long are you going to pretend you don't see me?"

"Cornelia?!" There was such speed in his turn that he knocked over a vase of air-freshening oil, drenching the dresser top and carpet beneath. The smell of wildflowers and meadow rose from the carpet like steam from a vent, filling the room. "What are you doing here?"

From the darkness, the second princess rose from a chair nestled in the corner beside an inactive fireplace. Because of his pre-knighthood rank, Guilford's chambers were impressive compared to the kitchen-sized apartments most soldiers received. His arm had felt too much like tar to bother switching on a light; only moonlight and false city light slanting in from the window offered any sort of illumination.

Cornelia, who he quickly noticed had traded her extravagant gown for a simple, knee-length lavender robe, crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Is that any way to address a member of royalty, especially one who has just dubbed you her knight?"

"Forgive me," Guilford said and dropped to the floor in a humbling bow. "To what do I owe this honour so late in the evening, Princess?"

He felt ridiculous kneeling half-naked before her and realized almost immediately that was likely her intention. Princess and knight they might now be, but old feelings died hard. She still found pleasure in his misery. She approached him with all the confidence and villainy he'd come to loathe about her and towered above with a smirk.

"For a loyal servant of the empire, you sure are rude."

"I beg your pardon?" Guilford's voice flattened as his brows dropped.

She started to circle him like a vulture awaiting its prey to die. "Our time on Svalbard was chaotic. Between the suicide of the Norwegians to the avalanche and our survival in the cave, things occurred and words were spoken which would otherwise not have been. I'm afraid to admit that I may have spoken brashly."

"If it worries you," Guilford began, standing, "I promise to take your proclamation of self-accepted futility to my grave."

"Thank you, Guilford, but that's not exactly what I meant," she said and stopped her circling. She stood at his back, staring at the door and wondered how well it was locked. "We once hated one another. I'm no longer sure how honest your words were in that cave but you've accepted knighthood and I was wondering..."

"I do not hate you, Princess. My acceptance is sincere and from this day forward, my body is for you to use as you see fit. I will advise you to the best of my abilities, but all the same, I shall accept your command without rebuttal. Your battles are my battles, your enemies my own. I shall not fail you while I draw breath."

His body was hers to use, was it? Her mind lingered on that promise above all. She hadn't a doubt that the future would hold crippling wars and he in the thick of it, his Knightmare at her side, prepared to jump between her and an opponent. She imagined sizeable foes, some with Knightmare frames of their own – though thus far Britannia owned every Sutherland in circulation, the day might come when terrorists seized a few from prisoner pilots – locked in mortal combat.

"In that case," she murmured, drawing battle scars along his shoulders with her nail, "your first duty is to – as you put it – give your body to me."

He whirled around, swallowing hard. "Excuse me?"

Cornelia pushed herself up onto her toes and touched his lips with her own. His lips were unyielding as he struggled between stepping away and preserving his chivalry, and obeying her – and his own trembling body's – command. Her hands wedged between them, tugging at the belt around her waist. With a gentle thump, the robe fell into a heavy heap around her feet.

And there she stood, for the first time, unabashedly naked before a man's eyes. His gaze lingered for a long time on her gentle curves – swelling pale breasts with rosy peaks and wide hips leading to long, smooth, slender legs. She could have been a goddess with her looks and form. Battle uniforms hid her well and a small voice whispered pleasantly in his head. He was glad that no other man was blessed with such a sight as was bestowed upon him.

It wasn't long before the images of her body made their way to his mind, which in turn sparked his body to respond with a fevered face and dreadfully painful erection. It required all his strength to maintain a calm composure and suppress the desire to take her right then and there.

"Why? Why are you doing any of this?" he asked, and knew not why. Why was he questioning the opportunity to bed the second princess of the Holy Britannian Empire?

He'd had plenty of women, from courtesans to duchesses and once – when he was much younger – he and a female cadet were caught by some colleagues after a Knightmare test drive grew heated. For the next three months, the others cracked jokes whenever the occasion presented itself, snickering things like, "Now I know why they call it a _cock_pit." That was also when he'd acquired his unofficial title as Spearhead of the Empire, though contemporarily it made reference to something a little less provocative.

But never had his lovers been as exquisite and noble as she, nor as beautiful. And it certainly was something to say that of all the men in the Empire she could have selected, why she offered him – whom she had not long before despised – knighthood as well as her virgin company.

Cornelia's expression darkened and for an instant, she considered grabbing her clothes and leaving. "Don't misunderstand me, Guilford. It is not love that guides me. However, I am a princess and entitled – no, _expected _– to choose a knight to be by sword and shield. That man must prove himself to be courageous and noble. Your actions during our misfortune proved that more than once. You risked your safety for mine, nearly drowned and froze and most of all, offered emotional support when I most dearly needed it. In addition to your history of servitude to the Empire, you stood out among even the Glaston Knights as the best candidate as guardian of my current and future well-being."

"And your presence here? Your requirement of me."

"Do I displease you?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. Never before have I beheld such beauty, such power. I am honoured by your selection. It's just that I don't understand."

"In time, it will be expected that I marry a man of nobility. Even princesses who actually come to love their knights rarely marry them; emotional strain of sending one's spouse – the father of their children, quite possibly – into the most dangerous of circumstances....It's simply easier not to.

"But the bond between princess and knight must be a strong one, or he cannot act to the best of his abilities. It must be one-sided, at the very least and you and I...We didn't start off on the right foot. I am merely acting in my own best interest; to ensure your devotion."

So she was sleeping with him with the intent that he fall in love with her, simply because he was perhaps the strongest, most skilled pilot in the Britannian military? It was unorthodox thinking, and not something he felt himself capable of. But knighthood was the dream of any good soldier; if not personal, than the Round.

But he saw something of sadness in her violet eyes and touched her chin gently, speaking softly. "And what of the proud and independent woman the Empire so greatly admires?"

She smiled weakly, appreciating his concern. "She will remain the mask I wear; however, in Britannia, the State comes before personal pleasure. The strong over the weak. If I cannot maintain my strength while serving my country, I am unworthy of the praise and admiration my people show."

Though there was sadness in her gaze, there was hope in it as well. She wasn't sacrificing anything that was truly important to her. In fact, he wondered if the sadness was not just the same type of loss a child feels when realizing that dragons and faeries don't really exist and that the world is just a bloody and cruel place.

Her body – untouched by a man – was simply a symbol of her independence. But hers was a fragile soul that found strength in appearances. It didn't matter that she offer her corporal form to another; she was well adept at finding other means to boast her ego and prove that she was, as second princess, above all others.

So he kissed her, not out of love, but duty, and felt her virgin lips yield to his. She trembled with a suppressed heat, a longing she knew not that she desired and stood taller, closer. The softness of her bare, full breasts lit an inferno in his belly and he knew, consequences be damned – he dared not imagine the terrible fate that awaited him, should the Emperor learn of his daughter's sacrilegious deflowering – that he had to have her.

The four-poster bed, with its expensive linens and lace-trimmed throw pillows – the designer's idea, not his – was two blind stumbles and a less-than-graceful flop away. She was barely on the mattress, her gently curved, white calves swishing against the satin sheets while her slender foot sought support in open air. He climbed up beside her and knelt between her knees, fighting with the button on his pants that suddenly refused to let go. The bed frame creaked almost inaudibly.

There was something unexplainable thrilling about seeing a woman – especially one of no experience – lying beneath, her hair an undulating spread around her, cheeks flushed slightly with a mixture of fervour and innocent shame, both at her own nudity and upon the first glance of another. Her eyes darted around, a voice – that probably sounded like an elder tutor with a bun of greying hair and wrinkled lips in a permanent pout – reminding her of her humility, while genuine curiosity drew them back. It'd been a while since he'd last been with a woman and the sight of her, waiting for him, made his head spin. He wanted to take her that moment, bury himself deep inside her, feel the warmth of her body, the sweetness of her hot mouth.

But he caught himself. This was her first time and she was a princess, _his _princess. It was his duty to care for her, protect her and...love her.

So he touched her face, held it delicately, and brushed his lips against her fevered forehead, then dusted her lips with the strength of a butterfly's wings. Cornelia's violet eyes fluttered and softened and she took the ends of his glasses and pulled them off carefully, setting them down above her head near the pillows. Her long fingers came up the back of his head, threading through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. She drew his face closer to hers again, their mouths touching a little stronger this time. With slight pressure, he forced her sky lips open and touched her tongue, grinning at her mixed reaction of surprise and delight.

She'd never been kissed before – at least any more than a platonic peck from her family – never been held or cared for on a deeper level than familial affection. Tears dabbled in her eyes, drawn even by a facade.

While their mouths were occupied in a figurative dance of sorts, his hands, with their rough fingertips and short nails, traced the ups and downs of her body. Touching her breasts, he brought a hitch to her breath, which relaxed with a quiver as he lingered lower, caressing her thighs and guiding her leg around his hip.

Before she could repress the sound, she gasped as though an ice cube had been thrown down her blouse when his arousal touched her sensitive entrance, already wet with anticipation. There was fear in her gaze, and promise in his. She closed her eyes, preparing, imagining a horrific pain as he pushed into her slowly. She choked on a breath, uncomfortable but in no pain; almost like some great, hot weight sat on her pelvis. She pushed her fingers into his scalp, silently pleading, begging him to release her.

His face pinched, both tortured and revelled by the tight, newness of her. He watched tears squeeze out her eyes and her brow stitched together as she rolled her head from side to side. When he finally met resistance, he paused to catch a fleeting breath. She continued her throes of discomfort until he embraced her tightly, captured her mouth to silence the scream he knew would come, and pushed into her fully.

The sudden and complete loss of self, the death of self, sparked through her like a current of electricity. Her back arched, moulding against him and in a single, brief moment, there was the unforeseen idea that they fit together quite perfectly.

When she was used to his intrusion, and wanting more yet, he balanced himself above her as tenderness was replaced with dominance and egoism. If this was his duty, he would pleasure her, do what other men only dreamt of; prove that she was his. Her legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper still.

He _deserved _this.

As he moved above her, _in _her, she buried her face in his neck, her hot breath condensing on his skin, rolling down in droplets like faded rain. She struggled on syllables and once, he thought, even whispered his name. His muscles tensed, convulsed and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer.

He was almost startled when they came at the same time, though such was short lived, and he gave to her everything. All his strengths, weaknesses, pride and insecurity. And all that, he received in turn. Together, they collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap, hearts racing and bodies relaxing, and he rolled off her to spare her the lung crushing weight of his form.

In the immediate silence that followed, slightly awkward, she ran her fingers along her flat, sweat-slick stomach. She ran over the preceding moments in her mind, blushing at the visual of their bodies joined together, and quivering at the thought of the future she'd given to him. Proper precautions would be taken, of course, to ensure no seed took root, but nevertheless...

Despite the weakness, Guilford was almost asleep when she rose from the bed and gathered her belongings from the floor a distance away. He searched the darkness for his glasses and watched her silhouette against the flickering city lights pull on her robe and drag her fingers through her hair until she appeared presentable.

"You're leaving?" he asked and cast the disappointment off as such for the loss of any encore performances.

A touch of a smile caught her lips. "We're not lovers. You are my knight and I am your princess."

"You're cold," he stated, but made no effort to stop her.

With her hand on the curved doorknob, she gazed down into the nothingness of the floor and laughed once shortly. "I know."

.

_Fin_

.

**Disclaimer: **Code Geass and its related characters belong to Sunrise, CLAMP and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **Ta-dah! Was this worth the wait? Probably not. But here you go. Lemon #1 is complete. Hopefully I'll write more on this pairing, since they're my favourite in the series, but I have a few others that have been waiting to be written (I wanted to finish this first rather than starting a bunch because experience tells me when I start multiple projects, I end up abandoning one or the other).


End file.
